


eighteen days

by skiggss



Series: dream smp oneshots [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Beating, Blood and Gore, Gen, Graphic Description, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-26 06:53:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30101997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skiggss/pseuds/skiggss
Summary: There’s been a lot of moments in Dream’s lifetime where he’s been fearful. Never downright scared, just fearful. But things always come out on the bright side for him. He has his ways, he pulls the right strings. Always.He’sneverbeen scared.Not even now, where Quackity stands with the Warden’s sword, an axe, and a pair of shears and pliers. He’s not scared.He’s fuckingterrified.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Clay | Dream, No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: dream smp oneshots [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2177643
Comments: 4
Kudos: 200





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> please read the tags, this is pretty graphic with the descriptions !!

There’s been a lot of moments in Dream’s lifetime where he’s been fearful. Never downright scared, just fearful. But things always come out on the bright side for him. He has his ways, he pulls the right strings. Always.

He’s _never_ been scared. 

Not even now, where Quackity stands with the Warden’s sword, an axe, and a pair of shears and pliers. He’s not scared.

He’s fucking _terrified._

“Give me the _fucking_ book, Dream,” Quackity raises the hefty axe in his hands and delivers a blow to the side of Dream’s head with the side of the weapon. 

Dream’s head snaps in the direction of the hit, pain shooting through his pulsing skull. He lets out an alarmed scream, empty hands failing to protect himself. Quackity breathes heavily as he raises the axe again.

“No- no, stop,” Dream pleads, scrambling backwards. His eyes are wide and bloodshot, tears involuntarily spilling from them. He can feel blood drops run down the side of his head. “Quackity—”

“—Shut the fuck up,” Quackity nudges Dream back harshly with the head of his axe, “Shut the fuck up, and sit down. You’re in for a fuckin’ ride, you green son of a bitch.”

“Fuck you,” Dream spits and holds his arms out warily. “Fuck you, Quackity. You know—we, we could work together.”

“What good will that do me, Dream?” Quackity sneers and swings his axe again. It strikes the other side of Dream’s head, making his head spin and vision blur for a moment. He blinks through his tears, breath hitching as he comes face-to-face with Quackity’s ugly eye scar.

His eyes are round and crazed. Dream doesn’t have a moment to think before his mask is ripped from his face, a new warm breeze flushing his face as the white ceramic is discarded haphazardly. 

“You know how powerful I fucking am, Dream,” Quackity barks, spit hitting Dream’s cheek, making the blond flinch back. “You fucking know! You see this right now? You’re fucking _pathetic,_ bitch! Look at you. You’re a coward. You’re _weak._ Hand it over, Dream!”

“F-Fuck y—” Dream yells out as Quackity lands another blow to his head. His ears ring, his head pounds. It fucking _hurts._ A broken sob wracks through Dream’s shaking body as Quackity kicks his knees back, making him fall harshly to the obsidian beneath them. 

Quackity grabs fist-fulls of Dream’s nappy, untamed dirty blond hair and lifts his head, barely making eye contact before bringing his head down harshly into his knee. 

“Fuck!” Dream cries, pain shooting through his nose and spreading through his face. Warm liquid drips from his nostrils and onto his bottom lip. He coughs and shies away from Quackity’s raised fist. 

“Where is Sam? Where the fuck is Sam?” Dream begs, “Where is he? Please, Quackity, where is—”

“—Pathetic.”

Dream squeezes his eyes shut and shouts as Quackity connects his fist to his face not once, not twice, but four times. A metallic taste violates Dream’s taste buds, making the dirty blond spit onto the obsidian. 

“It’s easy, Dream,” Quackity gets out through gritted teeth and heavy breathing, “Give. Me. The. Fucking. Book.”

“I burned it,” Dream gasps as Quackity grabs Dream’s hair and forces his head up. His neck is strained, the burn unpleasant. 

“You know what I fucking mean, idiot,” Quackity mutters and presses the blade of the axe against Dream’s exposed throat. He watches intently as Dream’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I can get the book for you. I can get the stupid fucking quill. I want you to write it down.”

Quackity leans down, breath hot against Dream’s ringing ears and whispers, “I won’t stop until you fucking give in.”

An involuntary chill runs through Dream’s bones as he blinks at nothing. He thinks things through—the pros, the cons of just giving in. To be frank, there are far more cons than pros. Dream knows what he wants, same as Quackity. And he’d do anything, _anything,_ to get what he wants. 

“No,” Dream’s voice is quiet. Quackity only huffs a humorless laugh and shakes his head with a small smile. 

“Well,” Quackity throws the axe over his shoulder so it rests behind his neck, “you had your chance, Dream.”

His left hand grabs the shears that were neatly tucked into his belt. 

“You had your chance.”

\---

It’s been three days, and Quackity didn’t lie. 

It’s been three days, and Dream hasn’t given in.

It’s been three days, and Dream hasn’t slept. Dream can’t close his eyes without thinking of the sinister and determined look on Quackity’s face. Dream can’t close his eyes without thinking of that dastardly bloody axe bashing against the side of his head and into his bruised stomach, that rusted pair of shears used to skin Dream alive and _hang his own fucking skin onto the item frames._ A particularly loud pop of the lava will send Dream into a full-blown hour long panic attack, where he clutches his hair so hard that his scalp burns. 

It’s been three days, and the lava is lowered.

Dream stiffens and cowers in the corner more. His body is soaked from the water he sat in, his clothes clinging to his frail frame. He silently prays to the nonexistent, unforgiving God above for Sam to drop the several instant-damage potions onto his head and end his suffering. 

“Dream,” Quackity greets cheerily with a cheeky smile, “you ready to write the steps down?”

Dream doesn’t respond. He anticipates the blow, which he recieves after a moment’s too long of silence. He grits his teeth so hard that it aches, just like the rest of his body. 

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” Quackity exhales, then laughs lightheartedly. “Good thing I have a hell-of-a lot of time!”

Dream silently wills him to leave. Leave, leave, _leave._

“Which is it today, Dream?” Quackity drawls his name, making Dream’s stomach churn. “Pliers...we haven’t used that yet. Let’s try something new, eh?”

Pliers. Pliers, what can they be used for? He can pull his fingers from their sockets. Oh, God, that would be bad. He could grab Dream’s hand forcefully, as he’s doing right now, and line the pliers up messily to the tips of Dream’s fingers and clamp down on his overgrown nails and pull as hard as he can—

“Sam!” Dream cries out, voice hoarse from days upon days of screaming. Blood pulses out of where his nail once was and drips down his finger and onto the palm of his hand. His hand trembles as his mind short-circuits to _pain, pain pain._

“Doesn’t feel good, huh?” Quackity narrows his eyes at Dream, watching him raise his arms to shield his eyes like the coward he is. 

“Please, leave,” Dream whimpers, and sharply inhales with a cut off groan as Quackity knees his face again and again. 

“I just want one thing, Dream! One thing, that’s it,” Quackity growls and shoves Dream’s head to the side, watching in disgust as the side of Dream’s head hits the obsidian floor, and hard.

Dream sucks in a breath through his teeth as he shields his face yet again, which only proves as poor defense as Quackity uses the hard toe of his dress shoes to kick his weak arms. Dream’s arms falter, allowing Quackity to shove the front of his shoes into Dream’s sputtering mouth.

The taste isn’t pleasant on his taste buds. The feeling makes him want to regurgitate anything he had eaten in the past week (which wasn’t anything at all, since Sam had stopped giving him food after he found out about Tommy’s death). 

“I need the stupid fucking ressurection book, you green bitch,” Quackity shoves his foot in harder, causing Dream to gag pathetically. “I’ve kept my promise for three days. I’ll keep it for three more, and then the three after that, and then the three after that if I need to.”

Dream attempts to speak around the literal shoe in his mouth, but to no avail. Quackity laughs bitterly at the sorry excuse for a human being beneath his foot, and removes his foot entirely. Dream coughs and spits, basically dry heaving onto the dark obsidian. His arms tremble as he tries his hardest to hold himself up. 

Quackity kicks at his elbow, and down he goes. His face hits the floor hard, his already bruised nose beginning to pound with more pain as the sudden pressure hit his nose. He screams and lashes as Quackity smacks the back of his head with his axe over and over again. 

It’s really repetitive, Dream thinks as he’s being beat. The pain never ceases as he cries and thrashes about. His throat feels scratchy, his voice cracking with every plea. Quackity keeps his poker face as his arms bring down the heavy axe, the netherite hitting Dream repeatedly at just the right spot. 

At some point, Dream thinks he hears a crack before the world around him goes black. 

\---

Seven days. A week. If it weren’t for Quackity’s constant reminder of how many days it had been every time he shows up, maybe Dream wouldn’t have known. 

His head hangs loosely as Quackity approaches on the seventh day. The Mexican scoffs and wacks the side of Dream’s head with what Dream can only assume is a pair of shears. Those same damn shears that skinned his forearms on the first day. His skin still hasn’t healed. In fact, Dream thinks it’s getting infected.

“I’m growing bored, Dream,” Quackity carelessly kicks Dream’s side. “And impatient. I don’t like your stubbornness.”

“Too bad,” Dream croaks, and he cringes at how unfamiliar his voice is. It’s scratchy and doesn’t sound anything like him. 

“Stand up,” Quackity demands and takes a step back, giving the blond some space to do so. “C’mon, let’s have a chat. Be civil for once.”

Dream’s mind tells him to obey, but he just can’t do it. His legs fight against his brain as he leans forward slightly in defeat. Quackity clicks his tongue.

“I said stand up,” Quackity walks forward and hooks a hand around Dream’s upper arm, tugging him up slightly. The dirty blond flinches, but makes no effort to move. 

“Can’t.”

“Bullshit,” Quackity shakes his head disapprovingly and shoves Dream’s face away. “Well, you know the drill.”

Dream looks up through his lashes, eyelids drooping lazily. His vision is unfocused and swaying with his head. He hasn’t slept, he hasn’t eaten, he hasn’t moved since Quackity’s last visit the day prior. He doesn’t have the energy to fight back or make any unnecessary, provoking remarks. 

“You’re so fucking annoying,” Quackity mutters miserably and wraps his fingers tightly around Dream’s limp wrist. He brings the shears up to his inner forearm, bringing alarm to the last alert part of Dream’s brain.

“No, no!” Dream manages before a blood-curdling scream dies in his throat. Quackity looks Dream dead in the eyes, no emotion in his half blind ones, as he slices the thinnest layer of skin he can manage off. 

He tries to cry, but nothing comes out. His eyes are dry beyond belief, as well as his mouth and throat. Instead of sobs are panicked gasps and pathetic whimpers. His body aches. His arms sting, his forearms well with blood. Scabs have formed on his throat, arms, legs, and chest where Quackity has poked and prodded him with the tip of his netherite sword. 

“Y’know, Dream,” Quackity takes a few steps back and deadpans the shaking figure in front of him. He runs his finger across the bloodied blade of his shears and inspects the dark crimson collecting on his fingertip, “this could all be over if you weren’t such an egotistical dick.”

Egotistical could be one way to put it. Dream doesn’t agree. But he also doesn’t voice that as he hides his face in hopes that Quackity will just leave and never return.

He doesn’t.

\---

Sam never stayed in the prison when Quackity visited. Not after the first few days where Dream screamed bloody murder while Quackity did whatever he was doing to him. 

He couldn’t stand hearing Dream’s shouts of despair, Dream’s shouts calling _his own name,_ to help him. Dream deserved everything that was coming for him, Sam tried to convince himself. He murdered Tommy for his own selfish gain, he put the kid and so many other kids in the SMP through Hell and back. 

But he can’t shake the pity and fear he has for Dream whenever Quackity shows up for his daily visit at exactly six in the afternoon. Not even the most evil of all evil deserves what Quackity is putting Dream through, and even Sam knows that.

So why doesn’t he stop Quackity?

He’s the Warden, after all. Why doesn’t Sam just stop him? 

Is it because of all the bad things Dream has done? Is it because him and Quackity are business partners? Is it because, beyond business and beyond the hardships of life, him and Quackity are friends? 

Sam will never know. 

He watches with guilt in his gut as he hands Quackity his netherite sword, axe, shears, and pliers for the thirteenth day in a row. 

He watches with guilt as Quackity bows his head, a glint of respect in his eyes as he turns on his heel to wait for the lava to be lowered so he can ride across to Dream. 

He watches with guilt as Quackity raises his axe, unforgiving, and lands the first blow to Dream before the lava covers the scene, leaving Sam clueless as to what happens next. 

Sam isn’t sure he wants to know what’s next.

\---

Dream cries out in agony as Quackity clamps the pliers down on one of his molars and pulls. Blood flushes in Dream’s mouth as tears cloud his already unfocused vision. 

_End it. End it all._

“You look kind of ugly, all beaten up,” Quackity comments as, with a disgusted expression, he tosses the newly pulled tooth to the side. He watches it bounce with the slightest sound ricocheting off the dark black obsidian walls, then meets Dream’s hollow green eyes, which aren’t quite there anymore. 

Dream feels as if he’s in another world, only grounded by the pain, which is becoming more and more tolerable each day, and not in a good way. He can feel himself slipping, slipping into a place he isn’t just ready to see yet. A place where he made Tommy go, and then proceeded to bring Tommy back and ask him a bunch of questions as if he were just a science experiment. 

He’s becoming numb to it all. To put it simply, he’s dying. 

“You can’t get the book if I die,” Dream croaks, bloodshot eyes glancing up to Quackity’s emotionless ones. Quackity bunches his brows and tilts his head, a teasing smile tugging the corners of his lips up.

“Who said you’re going to die?” Quackity sticks out his tongue playfully, knocking the pliers against the side of Dream’s head. The cold metal doesn’t feel good against Dream’s pounding head. 

“I am,” Dream laughs dryly. They sit in an uncomfortably tense silence as Quackity thinks his very few words through. 

“You’re not,” Quackity’s expression is dangerous, almost animalistic as his eyes bore into Dream’s. “It’s only been sixteen days.”

If Dream were in the right state of mind, he would catch the desperation behind his tone. But he’s not, so he glosses over it and instead leans his head back, eyes fluttering shut. 

A whimper escapes his lips as he feels something cold and sharp press against his exposed throat. He feels Quackity lean close, and his body tenses to the best of its ability (which isn’t very tense at all, considering how weak he feels).

“You’re not going to fucking die, Dream,” Quackity warns, “I _need_ that fucking ressurection book. _I need it.”_

Dream doesn’t respond. He only swallows despite the dryness of his throat and anticipates what Quackity was going to do next. Maybe he’d do something easier, because he knows Dream is dying. Maybe he’d go hard, go extreme, and be the one to witness Dream’s death, instead of allowing Dream to slowly rot away in the cell alone. 

“Let’s cut this fucking lion’s mane of yours, yeah?” Quackity breathes, eyes wild. Dream furrows his brows in confusion, but doesn’t get much say as Quackity yanks his head forward by his messy dirty blond locks and shuffles behind the taller male. 

The grip on Dream’s hair leaves his scalp scalding, the burn keeping him hyper aware of any and every move Quackity makes. He doesn’t use a brush, instead he uses his own fingers to shittily comb through Dream’s long, wavy hair. 

Dream can barely hear the sound of Quackity cutting his hair as his ears begin to ring, drowning out the noise of Quackity’s angered muttering, crying obsidian dripping onto the black, hard floor, and lava popping just outside of his cell.

He zones out enough to miss the way Quackity cuts at the skin at the base of his neck. He zones out enough to miss the feeling of blood dribbling from his scalp down his face, beading up on his brows and lashes. He zones out enough to miss the tears that build up in his glossy eyes and stream down his cheeks, mixing with the crimson liquid. 

“You see?” Quackity breaks his trance by holding a shattered mirror in front of Dream’s face. Dream doesn’t focus on the horrendous haircut he’s now sporting, but instead the psychotic look in Quackity’s eye. 

Dream can feel his heart pounding in his chest, pounding so hard that it hurts. His body is shaking violently as he tries to steady his gasps for air. Quackity’s sadistic grin makes Dream’s stomach prick with anxiety. 

_Give in, give in, give in._

“Oh, Dreamie,” Quackity coos softly, “I think I’ve won this one.”

\---

“Eighteen days,” Quackity drawls in Dream’s ear, awakening him from his nightmare. Dream’s body shoots up from where he was laying in the middle of his cell. Quackity circles him while crouching, one hand keeping a firm grip on his axe while the other holds a smaller blade. That blade could definitely leave more precise cuts. 

Dream stares towards the lava, and considers ending it all right then and there. Quackity wouldn’t have the satisfaction. Not of killing Dream, not of knowing how to resurrect. 

He can’t take it anymore. He can’t.

“Quackity,” Dream tries, but his voice fails him. His name is barely audible, but it brings a joyous smile to the aforementioned’s face. 

He can’t take it anymore, not when he has nothing left for him. Not when he has no more friends, no more connections. 

“Quackity, please,” Dream watches poignantly as Quackity’s grin only grows, and he leans down to match Dream’s low height from where he’s seated on the floor. “I…”

“What, Dream?” Quackity tilts his head, dark bangs falling across his forehead. “What is it?”

Dream rethinks the decision he’s about to make, but nothing comes to mind other than the growing urge of _‘I want this to stop.’_ He meets Quackity’s eyes again, and takes a deep, shaky breath. 

“Hand me a book and quill,” Dream bites his tongue harshly, “I’ll write down what you need.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mentions of glatt, schlatt’s character in the dsmp but i do not support schlatt, he is simply included for convenience of adding this bit 👍
> 
> also added this bc i know dream wouldnt give up the revival book stuff lol

“Quackity,” Glatt looks up, eyes dark. “We had a deal.”

“I—of course we did! C’mon, Glatt, you know me,” Quackity chuckles nervously, bringing his hands up in a defensive manner.

“Then what the fuck is this?” Glatt throws his hands into the air to exaggerate his anger. He points to the book where Quackity had scribbled down what Dream told him. 

“I-I don’t know, Glatt,” Quackity exhales and places one hand on top of his hand. He could feel himself becoming increasingly more shaky. “How did—how did I know Dream was going to lie?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Glatt rolls his eyes before narrowing them at the man in front of him. “Maybe, maybe because it’s Dream.” 

“Okay…” _He has a point there._ Quackity frowns and furrows his brows, “I’ll—I’ll go back and, like, kill him. I don’t know.” 

“You haven’t heard?” Glatt raises an astonished brow. 

“He fuckin’ escaped.”

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/skiggswastaken)


End file.
